


summertime sadness

by pinkgrapefruit



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: she’s spent months telling everyone she doesn’t have a problem and maybe she doesn't but who’s he to judge, they all have their vices.





	summertime sadness

**Author's Note:**

> It's a long one y'all. This is a songfic to 'carmen' by lana del ray. Thanks to qtip for proofreading way back in the beginning and keeping me generally sane. Thanks to meggie for sorting my last few sections and a ridiculously big thank you to frey for being amazing as usually, you've got endless patience for me and i will never understand it. Enjoy guys and please don't be quiet with your feedback! x

_Darling, darling, doesn't have a problem_

_Lying to herself 'cause her liquor's top shelf_

_It's alarming honestly how charming she can be_

_Fooling everyone, telling how she's having fun_

 

He watches her from afar, has known her long enough now to differentiate her lust from love, fake smile from real grin. She’s spent months telling everyone she doesn’t have a problem and maybe she doesn't but who’s he to judge, they all have their vices. His just happen to be cats and menthol cigarettes (he switched from Marlborough's when she left, they reminded him of her a little too much). Hers lay a little on the wilder side of life, long nights full of parties and drinking and who’s to say if she snorts a little something here and there, if it eases the pain, she could get away with anything. She parties every night on tour and he’d be lying if he said sometimes he didn't stay awake to hear if she got to the hotel safely- it’s rarely before 5 am and when their call time is 9, neither of them function the next day. Sometimes he hears noises through the walls, smells the tequila through the crack under the connecting door they always seem to have. He wonders if it's production's idea of a joke. He assumes it is.

 

Through the months between airing and now, he cannot tell when they fell apart. He cannot decide if it was the distance or the pressure or the rumours or the show but it was something out of their control, that he is sure of. He refuses to believe that they could have stopped it, the weight of that sentiment too heavy on his fragile state of mind.

 

They’re in Madrid (their second of twelve cities) when it all gets too much - when all he hears is the damage he’s done - unwittingly and unwillingly. He’s taken to working out at 4 am, it allows him to stay awake to make sure she gets home but also to try and distract himself from the possibility that when she does, she will not be alone. He’s tall this time, all broad shoulders and messy hair. He looks like the kind of guy who would model underwear and then talk philosophy with you, blonde and muscley. He reminds Brooke of himself and it hurts. He’s seen the guys she picked up before, he always sees them through the glass walls of hotel gyms, as they walk in heavy footed and leave him heavy hearted. The joke about Vanessa’s type is less funny when he realises it’s him.

 

He watches them go into the elevator, hears the ding as it closes and loses it on the treadmill. He sets it to its highest speed and runs like his life depends on it. He doesn't notice that the guy walks out 20 minutes later. Doesn't notice as the clock ticks round to 6:30 and then suddenly Nina is there. She turns off the machine wordlessly as businessmen around them file in to start their days. His legs are numb and he is shaking in a cold sweat as she hoists him up and half drags him back to his room. He lays on the bed, surrounded by deafening silence as she gets a flannel and a drink from god-knows-where. She’s worried about him, more so than Vanjie at this point, because they all expected her to be like this - they all hoped he wouldn't. She’s seen him this way before, when he lost Miss Continental - she carried him back from the gym after he’d missed their arrangements at a nearby bar. She’d put him to bed with a large bottle of Gatorade and a forehead kiss, watched him as he fell asleep and been there when he woke up, confused and disorientated. She took him to a therapist when they deemed it worth a shot and sat through long discussions about family and failure and his deep-seated anxieties about life. She’s seen him at his worst but this, this is a new can of worms.

 

After a few minutes, she pulls him into the shower, doesn’t care how much of him she sees, knows it’s the best way to sort him out a little better. Once he’s washed off the cold sweat and regret, he clambers back into bed. She holds him as he falls asleep, hopes he can’t hear Silky doing something very similar through the wall.

 

He wakes up at 2 pm and she’s gone. They don't have a call time that day so he wanders out onto the balcony and looks down over Madrid. The architecture should be beautiful but it's grand and larger than life and somehow finds a way to remind him of Vanessa. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette and letting the menthol fill his lungs, he longs for the days of Marlborough's and the good kind of secrets. He wishes for picnic blankets under apple trees, sunbathing in orchards until his pale skin browned under the Florida sun. He wants to drink tequila with her in California bars, lets memories flood his senses until he is feeling everything that he has missed for months. He wants to talk to her. He cannot find the words.

 

_She says you don't want to be like me_

_Don't wanna see all the things I've seen_

_I'm dying, I'm dying_

 

She admits she might have a problem on a Thursday. "Admitting" may be a little strong of a word but she at least notes that something is wrong. They are in Belgium, she thinks, all of the cities have blended into one, she bought some powder of a guy who did not speak English and the weight of it is heavy in her jacket pocket. She can hear his voice as she lines it up on her bathroom tiles, can hear the cadence of his singing and thinks she’s going mad. Their rooms are adjoining but the door is locked, she can see shadows under it sometimes. She does not dare to knock.

 

She snorts it fast and easy, pays no mind to the pounding of her head and the way her fingers are twitching for a drink. It’s 2 am when she leaves the hotel, Brooke hasn't moved in a while and she’s sure the rest of the girls won't notice so she goes to a little gay bar on the outskirts of town. She drinks her bodyweight in vodka, a bit of tequila on the side and spends  most of her time in the bathroom throwing up, snorting shaky lines and blowing any guy she can. She never kisses them, doesn't want to erase the feeling of Brooke's lips on her own. The bar shuts at 4 am and she’s still too buzzed to go back to the hotel so she wanders about the city with a tall blonde whose name she cannot remember - Brody or Cody or something surfer-y. She’s heard a lot of names like that back in Tampa, blown a few too.

 

She stumbles through the lobby at five in the morning, detached from whatever guy she was holding to help her make it through the night. The gym is the only thing lit up, glass walls a window into who she could be she swears she sees Brooke, lifting weights. Assumes she is mistaken.

 

Their call time is 10 am so she rolls into bed and sets an alarm for half past nine. When it comes back around she dusts the powder off the bathroom tiles and takes a shower to try and wash her of her sins. She puts on a copious amount of concealer and a bandana around her neck to hide whatever marks may have marred the skin, hopes no one will notice the way the bags under her eyes are full of deceit and thinly veiled problems. The rest of the girls are too tired to recognise her façade.

 

She leaves the dressing room in the venue to paint. She shares it with Silky but no matter how many times the girl has had to put her to bed, she will not let her see her barefaced. Too many secrets lie beneath the makeup, too raw to be exposed to the prying eyes of someone who cares. On the way to the bathroom, she bumps into Brooke. He is shirtless and fully painted, pale and pallid. His body looks like solid muscle but his posture is one of weakness and exhaustion. She wants to tell him, she knows how it feels to be so tired your bones won't hold you up - so tired that you cannot rely on yourself for support but from your friends. Wants to remind him that she could be a friend, but she remembers that she cannot and instead, powers past to the bathroom.

 

She paints a little heavier and pads a little harsher and if people notice they don’t say anything. She is trying to make up for all of the parts self-destruction ate away. There's not a lot of things a good mug can’t fix.

 

_She says you don't want to get this way_

_Famous, and dumb, and no age_

_My, I'm dying_

 

He switches back to Marlborough's in Helsinki. It's their fourth city and they're easier to find in Finland than menthols. He switches from the gym at 4 am to midnight yoga and Nina joins him occasionally, not to actually stretch, but to watch him. They go to bars and he kisses so many people but none of them taste like her, then again, he’d be hard-pressed to say what she tastes like nowadays. Probably regret and tequila. When Nina tells him to slow down, he does and when she tells him they should leave, he follows her blindly.

 

He’s a shell of who he used to be so he resorts to his most basic functions. He follows instructions when given, never argues, lets self-pity fill in for self-respect. Nina is his emotional support animal but also his handler, she guides him away from possible dangers, lets him make his own way through life whilst keeping a watchful eye and a helping hand on standby. He settles himself into a routine, something recommended by a therapist a long time ago. He acts as if he has a 9 am call every day and a show every night. He eats oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch and part of his own soul for dinner, filling in the gaps with protein shakes and coffee. Yvie calls him out one morning, she’s awake when he is even though she didn't go to sleep until two. She savours her coffee like it's her lifeforce and asks him why he looks so tired. He doesn't respond, they both know the answer. They make small talk over their food, neither touch the elephant in the room, merely lets it wallow in the corner while they discuss lighter things like makeup and wigs. They discuss changes in their numbers as they perfect them each night on stage, want to arrange a remix of ‘Sorry Not Sorry’ and agree to make it happen on their next day off.

 

When she enters the breakfast room, they do not make eye contact. He doesn't dare look up from his oatmeal and can hear Yvie’s soft chuckle at how much of an idiot he’s being. He can’t bring himself to care. She breezes right by them, nods at the other girl before going over to the breakfast bar and picking up her food. He doesn’t understand how she’s so functional at 7 am, doesn't think she’d been up in time for breakfast all tour. It’s only when she looks up that he sees she’s really not. Her eyes are bloodshot and skin looks like it’s been scrubbed raw. She’s a mess, looks like she’s crumbling and her façade is all wet paper and crumbling brick. Her hair looks like it hasn't been cut in months and it’s only now he realises that through all the staring he’s been doing, he hasn’t really looked at her, hasn’t taken in who she is in a long time.

 

It stings a little, in all the places he least expects it to, like salt in an open wound, one that should have scarred over months ago. He wonders when it got this bad, can’t pinpoint when it all started but vows to ask Nina during their daily catch up.

 

Nina tells him that he’s been in his own world but also lets him know that yes, it's awful but no, she’s not alone. He learns that Silky and A'keria are always on damage control and he’s so angry that they don't stop her but then he remembers that she’s like a force of nature. She’s a hurricane blowing down all of the storm defences they have. She’s a flood that no levee can stop. Vanessa exists in a microcosm of the universe where she is all-powerful, she yields to no one, especially not a Canadian who broke her heart.

 

_The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen_

_She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes_

 

It is the third week of the tour when she wakes up in someone else's bed. They flew into Geneva last night and that's all she remembers. Because life is a cruel joke she spent the three-hour flight sat next to Brooke. He was engrossed in ‘The Great Gatsby’ but that didn't matter because she spent two hours smelling him and immediately felt like she needed to wash the scent off her body. He smelled like peach and lemongrass and lost dreams and it brought the taste of him back onto her lips. When she closes her eyes she can still see him, happy go lucky with peach juice rolling down his chin, voice light and airy. She can watch the months unfold like a tape, fast forward and rewind till it hits the exact moment that he first told her he loved her. The moment where the rest of her world fell away and there was only him. She can’t bring herself to wonder what happened, she is too scared of what she might discover.

 

She sits up in the bed, rubbing at her eyes with hands balled into fists. The guy, another tall blonde, is still asleep but the bright light streaming through the window tells her that it is both late and that she has a pounding headache. She slips out of the bed, looking around for her phone and any smidge of dignity she may have dropped when she came in. She only finds one of them. Her phone quite helpfully tells her that she’s missed call time, it does not tell her where she is though and her data isn't working enough to get her a solid GPS. She finds what she hopes are her pants on the floor and hastily pulls them on, stealing a shirt from the guy and sneaking out of the door as fast as her legs will carry her. It's the middle of July so it's not freezing in Switzerland but she wouldn't say she’s warm as she hovers on the pavement outside the flat. She still has no clue where she is and her phone battery is dwindling so she calls the one person she hopes will make sense of this situation. She calls Nina.

 

While Nina tracks her down, having told her to ‘under no circumstances move’, she tries to remember what happened. She assumes she drank a lot, judging by her pounding head and her nose hurting which tells her more than she wants it to. Her entire body aches for a warm bed and a nice cuddle and she wants to laugh at how soft she’s become but she remembers that she’s getting older and she can’t keep outrunning it. She’ll continue trying though.

 

Nina comes in a cab at 11:45, eyes full of pity and maybe a little bit of disdain for the man before her. She can read him like a book, doesn't need to say anything because she knows that she already hates herself. They take the twenty-minute ride back in silence, the only words shared a brief 'we were worried,' and 'I'm glad you're okay' from Nina's part towards the end.

 

She arrives and is pardoned from the rehearsals that day, goes straight to bed with no plans of being seen until she is safely within the confines of Vanessa, no raw Jose left for the world to wag a finger at. At some point between the dinner she skips and the show she's supposed to do, Nina finds her way into her room. She is not like Silky or A'keria, she doesn't pry or tell her she'd been dumb, she just listens. Listens when Vanessa tells her she doesn't want to talk about it but doesn't argue when she starts spilling her guts, halfway through doing her eyebrows. She tells Nina everything, as one does. She explains everything she's done in painstaking detail, ashamed of every second but doesn't hide from her mistakes. It's only when she's finished that she looks up, she locks eyes with Nina through the mirror, unmoving since she began and wordlessly begs her to say something. anything. Nina gives a soft smile, she looks tired, having just taken on the weight of another friend's secrets and Vanessa doesn't envy her.

 

"You can do this," comes the soft voice, it sounds like the offer of ice cream on a hot day, like understanding. For once, Vanessa believes her.

 

_She laughs like God, her mind's like a diamond_

_Buy her tonight, she's still shining_

_Like lightning, light, like lightning_

_Carmen, Carmen, staying up 'til morning_

  


It is the third week of the tour when he spends his morning in a panic. He saw her leave after they checked in and never heard her return. He’d stayed awake until 3 am, sat outside his door because, of course, this was the one hotel without the adjoining rooms.

 

They landed at 8 pm into Geneva airport after a three-hour flight from Helsinki. He ended up sat next to her, her cologne tickling his nose every time he inhaled. It was the one she’d worn the weekend they’d gone to Coney Island. They’d had time off that coincided with them both being in New York and she’d (in her childlike wonder) always wanted to go. He’d go anywhere if it made her happy. They’d gone on the carousel, bought copious amounts of candy floss and ended the night on the Ferris wheel. He’d always counted it as their first proper date - the first one where one of them wasn’t in drag and they both left the house. The cologne had been retired after that, she’d said something about it not feeling right to keep wearing it when not every day would be as good as that one. He had to blink back tears on the plane.

 

When he woke up the next morning, he immediately asked A’keria if she’d come back. He knew that she was the least likely to either laugh or ignore his question and she dutifully told him that no, she hadn’t come back and yes, they were worried.

 

By call time, he was close to ripping his hair out. His hands had stiffened in the fists they were balled into and his heart was beating out of his chest like in a cartoon. He was sure that there  had to be the smoke coming out of his ears because he felt like his brain is on fire and there is no one there to put it out. His thoughts are like gasoline, igniting the flames that burn at his skull. They are a warning of what happens when you get too attached and he kicks himself for getting here.

 

Nina gets a call at twenty past ten, goes wide-eyed and slack awed for a second before composing herself. Brooke doesn't know who it is but the hush of Nina's voice and her sudden gentleness tells him is probably Vanessa and he's just so relieved. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in, his lungs gasping for air as Nina puts down the phone and gives him a half smile. "He's  alright," she says, impressively calm in contrast to Brooke's own panic-stricken demeanour. She organises everything like a boss, tells the managers what happened in cliff notes and makes sure to reassure Brooke every couple of minutes, to let him know that it's going to be okay.

 

When Vanessa walks back through the door of the hotel, Brooke almost loses it. He runs up the stairs, three at a time and barrels into his room. Sobbing, he reaches for his Marlborough's, savouring the way they taste like her and hoping his tears don't put it out. The fire in his brain has been dampened and he steps out onto the balcony to savour what little time he has left to himself.

 

He doesn't sleep easy that night, but he does sleep - and that's an improvement.

 

_Only seventeen, but she walks the streets so mean_

_It's alarming truly how disarming you can be_

_Eating soft ice cream, Coney Island queen_

 

They’re in Copenhagen and it’s breakfast time. It’s the first time in a week that Brooke has seen her without makeup and _god_ is it a sorry sight. She sits across from him on a long table, refuses to meet his gaze as she nibbles on an apple, a plate of toast untouched to her left. Their mugs of coffee are almost touching, the distance between them probably the smallest it’s been in weeks and yet he’s never felt so far away from her. It’s like he’s on another planet and she’s the Sun. He orbits around her, never getting close enough to get burned. He tells himself it’s not worth the pain, if he doesn't get burned then he’s safe and he can't help but hate himself for the thought.

He's finished his oatmeal (had added some blueberries to change it up a little) and is sipping quietly on his coffee, book in hand when he senses her looking up. It's like she's watching him, waiting for him to make a move. She tentatively moves her hand towards her toast and he sees how frail her wrists look. he's sure he could wrap his thumb and pinky around it, make a perfect circle and she'd still be able to move. She looks scared as she picks off crumbs, places them in her mouth experimentally, on the tip of her tongue as they will dissolve. It’s a little disarming, how small she looks. He wonders how long she's been like this, hates that he did not notice.

 

From then on, he watches every meal they share. She only turns up to a few, eyes red and skin blotchy. Her nostrils look scabbed and her voice is less foghorn and more chain-smoker losing their voice. He hopes that it is just the painful fluorescent lighting of the hotel dining room but he swears she looks more pallid and sick every time he sees her. Yet no one seems to mention it. She moves like she is being instructed to, all interactions seem forced and void of feeling but no one seems to bat an eyelid except him. She drowns herself in baggy sweatshirts and loose shorts, the fabric hiding a multitude of sins and keeping what little is left of her warm. She is wasting away, flesh and bone dissolved by vodka and self-hatred.

 

They get a roast for dinner. It is a Wednesday and she is there and she picks at the meat as if it has offended her. She pushes it around her plate like a child, picking the smallest parts to eat and leaving the rest. She leaves halfway through the meal and no one says a word. Most don't even look up from what they were doing, conversations do not stop. Brooke does though. He places his knife and fork down and nudges Nina. When they make eye contact, she sighs, reminds him that Vanessa cannot get help until she wants to be helped and reminds Brooke to eat his greens. He scowls because she is right.

 

_She says you don't want to be like me_

_Looking for fun, get me high for free_

_I'm dying, I'm dying_

 

It’s three am in Amsterdam and she’s getting her stomach pumped. It’s horrible, she takes a second to wonder if it's a fate worse than death but stops herself because, _god,_ she was too close to that to joke about it. She’s getting her stomach pumped at three am in a foreign country and the worst part is that no one knows.

 

She pays in cash, blatantly ignores the doctor's instructions to not do anything strenuous for a few hours and bids him a goodbye. Thanking god she’s out of drag (because she can't imagine how that would have gone with full face), she starts the long walk home. She is tired, exhausted even and her throat burns like someone's lit it on fire and is enjoying watching it flame. It feels like acid is dripping down into her lungs and to be honest, that's not far off. Having a tube shoved down her throat was not how she wanted to spend her Saturday night, she is almost grateful she was alone. Except she's not. She spent the remainder of her Euros on the hospital bill (having already paid copious amounts for cheap vodka and overpriced tequila shots) and having someone there would mean maybe she could get a ride home. Instead, she's walking dazed in the middle of the night through Amsterdam.

 

It's beautiful like the stars have all come out just for her. She stops for a second in places, just to marvel at the sky above her - drinking in the beauty like it is grey goose because she is painfully sober in more ways than one.  

 

At one point she sits on the embankment by the canal. The pale moonlight shines on the rippling water, refracting onto the houses like a mosaic. Vanessa lays back, head on the dew of the grass; she remembers what life was like when it was simple. She pictures laying like this with Brooke, hands intertwined as if they would never let go. She wonders if he ever thinks about it too - hopes she's not alone in her longing for easier times. It feels like a cop out when they have earned so much in their lives to wish to be back when they had little, but they had more time back then. She doesn't have enough anymore.

 

Her mind wanders to when they were laying on the tarmac drive in the studio backlot. It was late enough that they could see the faint shimmer of the stars behind the California smog and she was so fucking happy. Her head on his chest, feeling the contours of muscle beneath her as he ran his fingers through her hair. They were a different kind of stressed, lighter and less cautious. Worried but less bothered.

 

She can taste the plastic tubing on the tip of her tongue, feels it like a phantom slide down her throat until she is choking, gasping for air. She coughs for a minute or two before standing again and she starts walking, hoping to get back home. Back to Brooke Lynn.

  


_She says you don't want to get this way_

_Street walking at night, and a star by day_

_It's tiring, tiring_

 

He barrels into her room at quarter past six on a Monday. They are in Prague and he spent all afternoon out sightseeing while she spent all afternoon soaking in a bath of self-loathing and lavender oil.

 

He can smell it on her skin the second he walks in and she looks up at him from her pile of blankets on the bed. "I think we should talk," he says as he approaches the bed. His voice holds no enthusiasm but it is open and honest and he hopes that she knows that he is too. He doesn't really offer much in the way of dispute, already sat on the end of the bed when she dares to raise an eyebrow. "Should we now," she replies, although she sounds broken. Her voice is scratchy and weak like someone has scratched their way down her throat (he does not know how right this analysis is). It feels like spiders crawling on his skin, tiny legs prickling at his forearms as he watches someone so strong look so utterly lost.

 

Brooke refrains from hugging her, scared of what he will feel if his arms are too tight around her frame. "Okay," she relents. She says it like someone who is already done with the conversation, like she has made her mind up and now just needs to convince him of her beliefs. "I know a place."

 

She takes him to a small cafe he hadn't seen on his explorations. He wonders briefly how she knows about it but knows well enough not to ask out of fear of the answer. He orders two black coffees and some Danish pastries, tries his best to use the language from his phrasebook (part of his routine is trying to speak in the language of the people he is surrounded by). If he is bad, the cashier doesn't let on - hands him his change and receipt with words spoken in perfect English. It may be summer but she is dressed for snow storm season, something even more absurd because of the fact she is from Florida. Her hoodie is pulled over her hands and down past her shorts, combat boots laced halfway up her shins and a beanie slung awkwardly over her head. It's a confusing look and it confuses him.

 

They sit in silence for a while. Neither of them really knows what to say and they've spent too long individually wishing for this to be able to enjoy it.

 

"So," He starts, grimaces when he hears his own voice. It lacks his usual confidence, every last bit zapped down the drain. "So." She retorts, carried by a smile that does not reach her eyes. "You wanted to talk," She draws out the last syllable, drawls it like she's a Rhode Island mom getting her nails done. He coughs, clears his throat and looks around, the atmosphere is warm and inviting and clearly hasn't let the chill of their table spread into the rest of the room. "I don't think I quite understand, you see. I don't know... I don't know when we fell apart." His voice may be fragile but the volume is slowly rising with every word. "When did this become you and me - what the fuck happened."

 

This was the wrong thing to do. Any glimpse of patience she had goes out of the window along with whatever he planned on saying next. "I don't fucking know either," she says, brash and angry. "Do you think I wanted to turn into... into this?" gesturing to herself she continues. "This wasn't my fucking plan, Brock." It is merciless and mocking and the way she says the last part doesn't sound like his name. It sounds like a knife swiping through the air - cutting through him, like a Canada wind and it hurts like hell.

 

She looks smaller now than before, more drained but they've just started the conversation. "What happened?" he asks again, quieter this time. "Life," She laughs bitterly, response twisting the knife further into his ribs.

 

"I miss you." she says calmly, maybe a little resigned, the eye of the hurricane circling them.

 

He misses her too, it burns holes through his heart every time he thinks of her and he's not sure he can do it any longer. "Do you think... do you think there's a chance, that we could try again?" He isn't sure if he wants to hear her answer, knows it could be too much for him. He needn't worry. "I think I’d like that," he hears - a whisper in a bustling coffee shop like she didn't want it to be heard.

 

Maybe when the walk back to the hotel they are closer. Maybe his fingers brush hers just a little bit. Neither minds.

  


_Baby's all dressed up, with nowhere to go_

_That's the little story of the girl you know_

  


She is in A'keria’s room before Brooke shuts his door, eyes widened in a state of panic the other man finds hilarious and concerning at the same time.

 

"Baby, chill," comes the low timbre of her voice, loud in Vanessa's head as she tries to come to terms with what just happened. She needs more time, the walls are closing in and she needs more time. Hands are warm on her wrists and there is a soft voice in her ear as she sinks back against the wall.  She feels like she is sweating from just thinking and it is awful but she can't stop thinking about it. About the way he looked and the way he moved and how he spoke like he still wanted her; like he cared. So between sniffles and shaky breaths she tells A'keria everything.

 

A’keria nods and smiles and makes the right noises at the right times, to try and ease the girl's aching heart. She suggests asking for more time before suggesting she let him in and Vanessa has so many options but she feels trapped. "I - I just don't understand," she whimpers. "Why does he want me?" and A'keria’s heart, it breaks.

 

She sits down next to the short Latina, wipes a tear off her face and sighs. "'Cause you're you, boo," she replies, conviction pouring from every word. Vanessa smiles a little at that and hums. She can do this.

  
  


_Relying on the kindness of strangers_

_Time and cherry marks while doing party favours_

 

He tells Nina immediately. And by "immediately" he means straight after he spent hours in the shower trying to collect his thoughts from every scattered part of his brain. Once they seem coherent enough though, she is his first stop. He gushes to her, once he's started he can't stop and even though barely anything has happened, it feels like a hurricane. A tornado called Vanessa has come into his body and wreaked havoc, his ribs feel broken and his heart flutters like a moth and god why is he so happy with such a little result. It is elation, like getting a test back that you thought you'd failed only to get an A.

 

Nina listens with a wide grin and a sly look in her eye. She lets him radiate happiness, tells him he has grounds for hope and that this could be good. She tells him to let her talk though, to give her the time and space she needs to metamorphosise because she will come back a butterfly. He agrees because Nina West is nothing if not a voice of reason and a damn good friend and he loves her. And he loves Vanessa. And he realises that he is so screwed and he loves her, he loves her.

 

He tells Nina this on their second bottle of wine. He hasn't had a drink in a little while, saw what it did to Vanessa and can't let himself fall too - it hits him hard and fast like a freight train or a well-thrown dodgeball. Before he knows it he is wine drunk at ten pm on a Monday and spilling his guts to a man he loves like a brother and he is so happy. Brooke is so happy.

 

_Put your red dress on, put your lipstick on_

_Sing your song, song, now, the camera's on_

_And you're alive again_

 

They're not sure how it happened but they share a dressing room in Glasgow.

 

Brooke walks towards his assigned door, bouncing a little on his heels. They're in one of his favourite cities and he's been on a cloud nine ever since he spoke to V. Through Nina's encouragement he knows he should talk to her more, has figured out that there are things she should tell him before they try anything but even the hope for something more, anything, makes him jittery. It's like adrenaline pumped straight into his veins, he feels alive and free - like on a rollercoaster when the bottom drops out and you are just so in the moment. That's how he feels.

 

He doesn't check the door before he walks in - had he read the sign he would have been less surprised when he opened it to see two vanities, one already occupied by a short Latino. She's got her brows glued down and looks like she's got concealer on too, workstation neat and orderly as she packs on the powder. He sits down at the empty mirror without a word, lays out his supplies in a much less systematic way and immediately sticks on his wig cap. He is running late already.

 

"It's a little, sus-susp... odd, don't ya think?" she mutters, drawing on contour like war paint. He smiles as he pushes his brows down with a metal comb, "Suspicious, maybe," he replies - he's not totally sure what she's on about but he figures he'll let her explain. "I mean I thought it was gon' be Silky with me, then she went off with A'keria, and now we here," she tells him, stumbling in places as she concentrates on blending. He begins to understand, grasps at the olive branch she is holding out and realises just what she is going on about. "You thinking foul play?" he smirks, eyes widening at the realisation. This is Nina’s doing through and through. "That litt-" he catches himself, words falling off his tongue almost faster than he can stop them.

 

Vanessa raises a half painted eyebrow and continues her paint, he goggles for a little bit before remembering that he does not have time to get caught up on her beauty - he should focus on his own.

 

He's got a crease brush halfway into his eye when he next speaks, words feeling stiff in the warm air of the room. "Total honesty," he says, louder than intended. It comes out more brash and accusatory than he wanted it to but in the end, the tone feels right. She sighs, taking the powder brush off her cheek and tilting her head. "I don't like what you're im-implying Brock," her tone is warning and he recoils a little. "We both want this to work," he reiterates, "So we need total honesty." She scoffs. Vanessa looks at him like she's been scolded, like he took away her toys or something along that line. "Okay, I'll be honest. I hate that colour on you."

 

When he laughs it is raucous and noisy and it feels like flying. His lungs want to give up but it is freedom and love in a noise and he can't stop. She joins him and they giggle like madmen for a while, makeup left forgotten on the vanities in front of them. She composes herself first, lets the calm music in the background wash over her as she gets back into the zone. "Give me a little more time," she asks, she's not begging but when her voice breaks a little, she sounds pretty damn close.

 

He nods, smiles, and goes back to his art.

 

When she leaves the room, having finished ahead of him as he thought, she presses a warm kiss to his temple. It's not a promise, but it's pretty damn close.

  
  
  


_Mon amour, je sais que tu m’aimes aussi_

_Tu as besoin de moi_

_Tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie_

_Tu ne peux plus vivre sans moi_

_Et je mourrais sans toi_

_Je tuerais pour toi_

  


London is the first time in weeks they've had adjoining rooms. It takes three nights to realise that the door is not locked. On that particular  evening, Brooke is calmly watching Netflix, refusing to de-drag quite yet out of laziness and a little bit of pride for his handiwork. He and Yvie debuted 'Sorry Not Sorry' and the crowd loved it, he knew they would, the English crowds always went a little mad for that kind of thing. He recalls Vanessa's face as she watched it, the little smirk she had as he did his handstand against the wall. In the break in the song, he winked at her, a challenge maybe - for what, he didn't quite know. She'd looked gorgeous, in gold fringe with a grey-blonde wig that highlighted her everything. He'd always loved how she performed drunk but _god,_ he'd forgotten how well she performed sober. With nothing but adrenaline rushing through her, she was like a rocket ship. She glowed brighter than the Sun, eclipsing all of them and no one could be annoyed because it was beautiful.

 

Back in the hotel, Vanessa leans against the door, she's painfully sober - an unspoken promise to Brooke that she is going to try, just try to do this right. She wants to be drunk in love, high on his touch, his kiss, his everything. Leaning heavier onto the door, she feels it give out under her weight, and as her hand finds the handle, she pushes down.

 

He is laying on his bed in full drag, watching something about puppies and he looks up in surprise at her as she enters. She raises an eyebrow at him, almost teasingly. "What are you doing," he asks, it's hesitant as if he's scared of the answer. He looks worried like he thinks she's drinking again and she gives a soft smile in reassurance. "Couldn't stop thinking 'bout you," she responds, popping her lips and tilting her head to the side. Her smile grows until she thinks she probably looks a little manic but he's smiling too and for a second it feels like old times. He gets up to greet her, there’s no rushing, he doesn't see the point when they’ve got all night.

 

 ~~Vanessa~~ José still kisses like there is fire coursing through her veins, the flames licking at his tongue like a warning sign. She kisses like he's her oxygen, fueling the glow in her eyes with every moment. Brooke nibbles on her bottom lip for a while feeling the way her body moves beneath him when he bites down. He prides himself on how well he knows her, how he knows where to suck to get her moaning his name in a way that is just sinful. It’s just kissing but somehow it feels like more, it feels like they are intertwining, one needy mass of flesh and blood and lust and love. He is enamoured by it. Pushing a knee in between her legs, he moves from her lips to her neck, pulse point pounding beneath his teeth. It is flushed and warm and he sucks on it just hard enough that he feels her knees give out but knows that it will not leave a mark. She whines for him as he nibbles her ear, gives a harsh exhale as he kisses down her collarbone. Lips hungrily reaching past the collar of her shirt and fingers grazing under its hem. And then he stops.

 

He’s almost on his knees and he can see her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, looking down to him, her fingers intertwined in his hair. He can’t remember the last time it felt this good to be wanted but he can’t seem to continue.

 

Brooke slowly stands back up, taking both of her hands in his as he brings her over to the bed. He lazily traces a finger over one of her cheeks as they sit in silence, both too scared of what this could become to say anything at all. Vanessa’s chest is heaving and flushed, her makeup everywhere and her neck red from Brooke's lips. He’s sure he’s not much better off but he still can’t believe he has this effect on someone, especially not her.

 

"Did that help?" he asks, voice hoarse. He feels a little silly, playing along with her but she's got him wrapped around her finger already and he can't help it. She straddles him in one fluid motion, a knee on either side of his legs as they swing off the edge of the bed. Each hand comes to cup his face, not caring about the makeup still on it. She presses one chaste kiss to his lips, melting into him for a second. "Yes baby," she whispers into them, pulling away and smirking to herself. With a grace he is certain he wouldn't be able to manage in this state, she jumps off his lap and leaves the room.

 

Brooke falls back onto his bed, a hand coming to mirror where hers had been. He is fucked, royally screwed.

  


_The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen_

_She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes_

_She laughs like god, her mind's like a diamond_

_Buy her tonight, she's still shining_

  


They’re both awake for breakfast at 7am, Vanessa calling for Brooke on her way and when they get there, it’s empty. Brooke picks up two bowls of fruit and a plate of toasts, grabbing some juice and coffee on the way past as Vanessa rushes towards the comfy seats. It’s a little odd to him, seeing her not hungover, and he drinks it in, scared it’ll go away at any moment. She's nigh on bouncing out of the seat by the time he reaches the chairs, body drowned in his white hoodie. He doesn't know how she got it but it looks pretty damn cute so he doesn't really care.

 

She devours the fruit in minutes and he just sips his coffee and watches. "Shut up," she says with a mouthful of guava as he smirks. "It's easier to eat when you don't feel like you going to throw up." He can't argue with that, settles for eating his toast in comfortable silence. Every so often he'll watch her gaze flick down to his chest, the t-shirt tight against his still shower damp skin. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs back, holding onto her coffee like it'd disappear if she loosened her grip. It reminds him of the Vanessa he used to know, the one that sat at his kitchen counter with Apollo stretched across her lap. Coffee in hand and wit just quick enough to distract him and make him burn the pancakes he's (unsuccessfully) trying to make. The nostalgia hits him like a train, pushes him back against his seat.

 

"So are we gon' talk about last night then?" she questions, curling into her seat and bringing the coffee up to her mouth. Her nonchalance is killing him and she knows it. "Where do you want to start?" he asks, he doesn't have anywhere to be and wants to know what he's getting himself into. "I guess the beginning," laughing a little - although it sounds bitter in his ears - she prepares herself. She tells him how she wants to get sober for him, how she needs him to know she's trying. She lets him know how much she wants him imprinted on her skin, with words this time rather than soft kisses and tender moments stolen in hotel rooms. He does his best to stay quiet the entire time and when he can't hold in his reactions she smiles at his unusual brashness. It's a role reversal and a half, him the louder one and her all soft words and nervous glances. He maps her face with his eyes while she talks about the future, takes in the profile of her nose and the curve of her jaw. She's managed to grow a slight stubble overnight and he likes it, wants to trail a finger over it and feel the tiny hairs.

 

He's snapped back into reality by his own name, tumbling from her lips like ivy on a wall. "Brock, I-  I just want this to work out." His mother always told him not to make promises he can't keep but in this moment he would promise her the world if it meant she would curl up into his side for a while.

 

He stands, pulls her up with him and into his arms until they are holding each other closer than it should be possible. Burying his face into her hair, he exhales the emotions he needs her to know he feels. "Me too baby," he whispers, each syllable carrying the love he has kept locked away for months.

 

The hold each other until Nina bursts through the door. She looks at them with the stupid grin she had the first time Brooke walked into the werkroom. It's full of relief and comforting happiness and it brings a smile to Vanessa's own face. She pulls away and walks over to the other man, whispers a 'thank you' into her ear and then waits expectantly at the door. It takes Brooke a second to clock onto what she's asking, still a little dazed from all the events of this morning. It's barely eight am and it feels like his world has spun off its axis.

 

They spend the rest of the day intertwined in each other. They watch an entire season of 'The Office', Brooke having to stop and explain things more often than he would like to but he finds he doesn't care, Vanessa is in his arms and that's all he can think about.

  


_Like lightning, light, like lightning_

_Like lightning, light, like lightning_

  


It's the last day of the tour. The past two weeks have been the most joyous of his year so far and Brooke is unbelievably grateful.

 

After many nights of talking until they fell asleep (Vanessa's new vice), they've agreed she'll take a bit of time off when they get back to the States. She's booked herself into a two-week rehab course that'll teach her coping skills and after that Brooke wants to _really_ take her to Canada. A week with no gigs and nothing they're supposed to do but explore the places that made Brock Brooke.

 

Everyone's noticed the change. They're both brighter, happier people and whilst they're not solely responsible, they're certainly main factors in their newfound joy. They get ready together for the last show, talking for its full duration. Any lull in conversation is filled by Vanessa leaning over to give him a quick peck. Somewhere between eyebrows and eyeliner, they get lost in each other's lips. They're only pulled away by Nina knocking on the door, she's smart enough not to come in but also knows the two well enough to figure out that the increased music volume isn't just because they liked the song.

 

They both focus on their faces after that, only kissing once more when they're both fully dressed. They didn't necessarily match their lipstick just so they can kiss easily but it's certainly effective in that area and Brooke plans on exploiting it for all it's worth.

 

The show goes perfectly and so what if Brooke spends Vanessa's number wolf whistling and hollering from the sidelines. Vanessa does the same for all of Brooke's. At the last bow, Vanessa kisses Brooke on the cheek and the crowd goes wild, Brooke doesn't let go of her hand until they get back to their dressing room where he pins her against the door. His mouth goes straight to her neck, she's mewling under him before his lips touch her skin, flushing red like summer strawberries as he licks and sucks his way up her throat. He grabs her by the hips and hoists her up, using the wall to support her and she wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him close. As he pulls away for air, she latches herself onto his pulse point, making his knees weaken a little. She tugs at it, kneads it with her tongue until he's pulling against his tuck.

 

He's expecting her to move away as she usually does when they get this far, they've been making out like teenagers, hot and heavy under the covers but are still to consummate the new relationship. Even though he knows it's coming, he's still just a bit disappointed when she jumps down, swinging her hips as she walks towards the mirrors. He rolls his eyes, smiles to himself and follows suit, removing the layers of makeup and costuming until he can see himself again. Looking to his left, he can see her too and she's beaming at him, a big contagious grin.  

 

She's not perfect, but neither is he. Maybe together they can be the kind of perfect they need.

 

_Darling, darling, doesn't have a problem_

_Lying to herself 'cause her liquor's top shelf_

  



End file.
